JiminQueens2's blog

Dad climbs to his feet and leans over, extending a hand for me. I take it and allow him to pull me up to my feet. I glance down and note the start of a telltale bulge in his blue briefs. I already know what’s happening in mine. But before he can say anything about it, I poke him in the chest to start the next round of our Thursday night ritual.

“You got lucky that time, Dad,” I say, “but I bet I can make you say ‘Mercy’.”

“I’ll take you up on that bet,” Dad says. He lifts his arms up to his head, hands up, palms facing me, and wiggles his fingers.

I grin and step towards him. I raise my hands until my left palm is touching his right. Slowly, ever so slowly, our fingers interlock until our hands look like they’re clasped in prayer. Dad taps me on the cheek with his left hand then brings it back to its position in front of him. My right hand laces with his left, mirroring our other hands.

This time, there’s no countdown – we start pushing against each other as soon as all of our hands are locked together. Our bodies come together as we strain to push the other man’s hands back, and we stand chest to chest, grunting with exertion, sweat starting to seep out of our muscular bodies. I can feel the hardness between his legs with my own.

It isn’t long before our chests are coated with sweat and start to slip and slide. I was counting on that. Dad’s stronger than I am and always has been, but I have a better sense of balance and a better sense of control over my body. Dad is flatfooted, while I’m leaning forward on the balls of my feet. And yeah, Dad is stronger than I am, but he’s not that much stronger – so he’s working both to push me off and to keep his footing.

Meanwhile, I’m using something Dad taught me – when you’re in a fight, find ways to use the environment to help you. There’s a mirror to the side. Every time Dad stumbles a bit, I shift our bodies so that we’re at a closer angle to it. In no time at all, Dad’s facing the mirror and my back is to it.

I lean forward into our battle, pressing even harder with my hands. I know what it looks like from behind me – the hard, firm muscles in my upper back bulging and flexing as I’m pressing against him. But I’m watching Dad’s eyes, and eventually he makes his mistake. He reflexively takes his eyes off me to look at the show in the mirror.

And ever so slightly, I can feel the force in his hands ebb as his attention is distracted.

I press my advantage, squeezing with my hands and twisting them as hard as I can. Dad’s completely off balance now and he stumbles and staggers as I drive him all over the mat. I twist my right arm and force his left hand palm up – the worst position it can be in for a struggle like this.

From here, it’s a foregone conclusion. With all the pain in his left hand sapping his attention and his will, his right hand starts to weaken, and I can easily twist it palm up. I have him now. And without mercy, I flex my hands so that his are bent backwards to the point where his knuckles are almost touching his wrist.

Dad screams in pain, and under normal circumstances I’d feel bad, but our battles don’t allow for tender feelings. I squeeze even harder, and, with gritted teeth, I mutter, “You know how to end this, old man.”

He does. With his eyes closed – in pain? blinded by sweat? Who knows? – he sinks down to his knees. I step forward so that his head is level with my waist, and I hear him, in a voice pained and humiliated, whisper, “Mercy…”

I immediately let him go and step back. He falls forward, supporting himself on his knees and forearms, massaging his hands and moaning. My hands are aching from the abuse, but I made my old man quit, and my green briefs are tenting out from what that does to me. Dad rolls onto his back and there's a similar full tent in his briefs. For tonight’s battle, we’re even.